


Imprints Itself

by rasyya



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless, and recites poetry, arthur is a professor, eames eats an eclair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 06:46:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2181939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rasyya/pseuds/rasyya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is busy.</p><p>Really fucking busy; he has one more exam to give, and five to grade, and the English professor really, really should be concentrating on the sheaves of papers spread in front of him, but—<br/>he can’t.<br/>He can’t because he’s in a fucking tea-room, trying not to stare at the server sitting a few tables away shoving an éclair inelegantly into his mouth and using his black apron to brush the crumbs off of his big, broad, heavy hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imprints Itself

**Author's Note:**

> finished my undergrad and felt like celebrating by writing some porn?

Arthur is busy.

Really fucking busy; he has one more exam to give, and five to grade, and the English professor really, _really_ should be concentrating on the sheaves of papers spread in front of him, but—

_he can’t._

He can’t because he’s in a fucking tea-room, trying not to stare at the server sitting a few tables away shoving an éclair inelegantly into his mouth and using his black apron to brush the crumbs off of his big, broad, heavy hands. 

The man looks up after a moment, catches Arthur’s eye, and to the professor’s surprise; _blushes._

_Shit._

_Fuck._

Arthur quickly looks down at his cooling tea and groans.

It’s been three weeks since he first ducked into the small, unobtrusive tea-room boasting the best British-style tea, escaping the weather, leather satchel tucked carefully under his arm, hair plastered to his forehead.

He had been pushing the wet strands out of his eyes, and checking that the contents of his bag were not water-damaged when a quiet, “um,” interrupted him, and he looked up into the most devastatingly handsome face he’d ever seen.

Hair carefully parted, and smoothed over.

Expansive shoulders stretched a simple white-collared shirt.

Plush, red-bitten lips.

Blue-green eyes that –

Jesus, the man was biting his lips—oh, god he had deliciously crooked teeth—and ducking his head, almost. Shyly.

Arthur knew his cheeks were stained crimson, he could feel the heat of it slicing through him, and he knew he must look foolish sopping wet, a puddle beginning to form at his feet, so he turned around in embarrassment and was going to make a run for it, but then the man spoke, and—

There was nothing he could do.

It was like the richest caramel—

Raspy and honeyed, softly accented, hinting at a growled darkness,

“Sir, would you like— if I could offer to take your coat?” The man said, and Arthur turned around helplessly, and allowed himself to be gently pushed out of his wet coat, and led to a table by a window, don’t look at his ass, _don’t look at his—JesusChrist._

And.

That had been twenty-three days ago.

Arthur tries to go to the tea shop at the very least twice a week, even though he isn’t much of a tea person, and when he’d asked for a coffee two weeks ago, the strain of having lectured for three hours weighing heavy on his eye-lids, he had been met with an incredulous arch of eyebrows, and a lingering smirk on those beautifully fat lips when a steaming pot of pu-erh was set before him. The atmosphere is – cozy and tucked-away, and the place has quickly become Arthur’s favourite to work; despite the sometimes distracting nature of the man who always quietly serves him with a playful smile stretching across broken teeth.

The tea-room is emptier than usual today, Arthur the only one, sitting in his usual spot in the corner by the window; he’s not getting anything done, and it’s useless, really.

He sighs, folding his fingers together and resting his chin on them.

“That bad, eh?”

The voice is like a sip of steaming tea, curling in his stomach.

The man is looking up at him, licking his fingers—gaze hesitant, but pointed; purposeful, intriguing.

Arthur shrugs a little, pink smudging across cheeks.

The man smiles and stands, nodding slightly at Arthur, before going into the back.

Arthur lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and closes his eyes, heat suffusing his face;

_God, such an awkward idiot._

A throat clears, and his eyes fly open and the man is standing next to him, holding a cup of something that smells like freshly cut grass, and a plate with a chocolate croissant,

“Do you mind if I?” he gestures with the hand holding the croissant.

Arthur gulps, eyes wide, and he sees the man’s gaze flicker to his mouth and then back up to his eyes,

“Unless,” the man’s voice is low and hesitant, he looks at the sheaves of papers strewn haphazardly on the table and ducks his head, “Shit—you’re busy, aren’t you. Sorry for the bother,”

“No, no no! No, I’m. Yes, please; sit.”

_God, **such** an idiot._

Arthur flails slightly, pushing away books and exams, and clearing a space for the man across from him.

The smile he gets in return is so blindingly worth it, he catches himself staring, and doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and God.

“I wouldn’t normally do this, but the shop is so empty, and—” the man sets the croissant between them, “I’ve got reason to celebrate.”

Arthur wants to lick into that grin, and bite on those lips, and feel those ridiculous teeth knocking against his.

“Oh?” Arthur says, a bit strangled.

“Yeah,” the man turns slightly sheepish, folding his hands around his tea, “I’ve finished my undergrad this morning.”

“Oh, wow, that’s – congratulations, um—what did you study?”

Arthur generally hates feeling this out of place, this uncomfortable anxiety slicing into him, making his heart jump and his palms sweat, but the man just smiles at him, a little astonished, as if he’s surprised that Arthur would want to know, and Arthur bites his tongue, because he wants to lean across the space between them and tell this man whatever his name is, that he is the most gorgeous creature Arthur has ever seen, and that he wants to write heart-wrenchingly glorious poetry at him for hours. Instead Arthur wrings his hands under the table.

“I studied theater.”

Arthur picks up a book and neatly stacks it on top of another, just so that he has something to do with his hands,

“I teach literature.”

“I know,” the man says, accompanied by a dark smirk, and Arthur feels himself blushing again.

There is a brief silence, punctuated by sips, before Arthur tries again. He isn’t good at this— and he’s never really cared much, but now. He wants so badly to impress, and to seduce, and to flirt, and to connect, but he doesn’t know how. The man doesn’t seem to mind the quiet, picking up a book and flipping through it casually.

“You must be happy to be finished with your studies, um—sorry, what’s your name?” Arthur asks. Because he needs to know.

The man’s laugh is the sexiest thing Arthur has ever heard, “It’s Eames.”

Eames.

_Eames._

It’s so fitting and absolutely _perfect_ ; Arthur can’t help but smile down at his grading book,

_Eames._

Eames chuckles softly, “Ah, but I’ve got auditions for the masters program the day after tomorrow, so. No rest for the wicked.” The last is said with such curling sultriness, that Arthur looks up—

Eames is watching him, elbows resting on his table, a delicate cup of tea held carefully in his large, blunt fingers; his eyes are dark, and his lips tug and catch on the rim—cool china pressing an indent into the thickness of them.

Arthur’s heart thunders in his chest.

Eames takes a sip of his tea, tongue flicking out to catch the moisture there, and he pushes the plate between them forward a little,

“It’s for you, on the house; I hope you like chocolate.”

Arthur doesn’t know what to say, so he just nods, picks up the fork and loads it with a bite.

The pastry is sinful and decadent; he moans around the mouthful.

“Delicious?” Eames asks, a low growl.

“Heavenly.” Arthur replies, transfixed.

Eames sets his tea down, and reaches up, gently taking the fork out of Arthur’s hand, and setting it on the table. He grabs the croissant, never looking away from Arthur, and brings it up to the professor’s slightly open mouth;

“Darling, the only way to truly enjoy a croissant, is to eat it with ones hands,”

So Arthur takes a bite.

Eames watches him reverently, worshipfully catching every lick, every indulgent moan until there is only a small morsel of the treat left.

Arthur knows his face is red, and he’s never done anything like this in his life, and he feels little flames licking at his insides, and Eames looks at him like there’s nothing else in the entire universe so important, and so he opens up wide around the last mouthful, wet lips brushing against beautiful fingers, and Eames whispers, Fuck me, like a prayer and so Arthur curls his tongue around two fingers and sucks them in.

Eames tries to bite back a groan on uneven teeth, so Arthur wraps his hand around Eames’ wrist, and shoves the fingers further into the wet heat of his mouth, sucking, nipping, sloppy with his need to taste Eames.

Eames twists his fingers in Arthur’s mouth a little, so that he can run his thumb across the corner seam, smearing the saliva trickling out there.

“Shhhit.” He growls, clenching his eyes shut, “Wait, just— _Oh God, your tongue, fuck._ Wait. Shit, wait—” Eames reluctantly pulls his fingers from Arthur’s mouth, wiping the spit covered digits on Arthur’s lips, making them shine.

Arthur blinks slowly, like waking up from a dream, and suddenly his mouth clicks shut, and he sits back abruptly,

“Oh my God, _I’m so sorry._ I’m such an idiot—”

“I took your modern poetry course my sophomore year.”

Arthur is startled,

“What?”

“I’ve never—you don’t even realize it do you? God, what you do to me—I’ve never gotten hard from being read poetry before, and I’ve wanted you since that first day, when you walked into class and started talking about Yeats and I had to drop your class, because I couldn’t handle such a heavy course load, and I didn’t want it to be yours—not when you didn’t know my name, or who I was, but I didn’t have a choice. And then you came into the shop that day, looking like a fucking wet dream, the way that shirt was plastered to you, I thought.” He clears his throat, “I just. I’m sorry I’m such a big lout, and that I’ve practically flung myself at you, it’s just—I’ve graduated and I wanted to celebrate, and I just thought it would be nice to sit across from you and watch you work, and now I’ve fucked it all up. Sorry I’m such a twat.”

Eames pushes back from the table, and gets up, shoulders slouched, and Arthur wants to smooth them back, and he thinks he remembers; a shy smile, a gray hoodie, so he stands up and,

“I remember you.”

Eames turns back, desperate, hopeful.

“You sat in the back, next to Ariadne.”

Eames laughs, a little helplessly, a little reckless; crazed. He runs a hand through his carefully parted hair,

“Yeah, yeah. That was me.”

“Do you maybe want to get a drink with me sometime?” because fuck it, Arthur’s never wanted anything so badly in his life.

Eames’ grin is larger than life, brilliant, shit-eating,

“I thought that’s what we were doing.”

Arthur kisses him.

The give of tender lips against his, the molten heat of a thick tongue pushing into his mouth demanding to be sucked; Eames runs his broad hands across Arthur’s shoulders, brushing up to rest just under the line of his jaw, cupping carefully, lovingly.

“Arthur,” Eames whimpers, so Arthur carefully steps back until his ass hits the edge of the table, and Eames presses into the v of his legs, wrapping his hands underneath Arthur’s thighs, and lifting him to sit on top of forgotten papers, and unmarked exams, and Arthur is making these beautifully hitched sounds, and whispered half-kissed-away words, and he wraps his legs around Eames’ waist, irresistibly wanting.

Arthur can feel Eames’ cock hard and insistent against his, and he grinds into it, biting off a desperate sound, and Eames growls, and bites at his jaw, reaching underneath his ass to push them together, and Eames shifts a little—wedging his thigh between Arthur’s legs for Arthur to ride and he does; filthily. Spilling cries and clutching at Eames’ shoulders—

He’s barely even sitting on the table, just perched on the thickness of Eames’ thigh, Eames’ big hands squeezing his ass, and Eames licks the shell of his ear and whispers shyly, “I want to take you home, darling, can I take you home?” and Arthur bites his lip to keep from swearing, and just nods and Eames sets him on his feet carefully, as if he’ll break, and stands back.

“God, you’re a fucking dream. I want to lay you across that table and just suck you off.”

Arthur turns and shoves as much as he can into his satchel, crumpling pages, everything out of order.

“How far away do you live?”

A hot line presses against his back, and he tips his head back, feeling the scrape of Eames’ scruffy jaw against his.

“Couple of blocks.”

Arthur waits outside while Eames calls the owner,

_“It’s my nan, Arthur. She won’t mind if I close early.”_

They walk to Eames’ loft in anticipation-infused silence until Eames catches Arthur’s hand in his, and starts talking about his upcoming audition for the master’s program.

The minute Eames’ keys scrape and click in the lock, he pulls the door open, pushes Arthur inside, bangs it shut, and then shoves him up against it.

“God,” Arthur punches out, brokenly, desire hitting him low in the gut,

Eames sucks the skin above his pulse point, biting the slick flesh, a sting of pain, and then soothingly laving it with his tongue.

He shoves Arthur’s shirt up, rucking it underneath his armpits, and greedily takes a nipple into his lush mouth, sucking and licking the tender nubs until Arthur is writhing, pinned against the door, head back and mouth open wantonly.

Arthur is whimpering, a high continuous sound, and Eames groans, and suckles harder at the nipple in his mouth, the sound of it sharp and lewd as Arthur’s hips buck up against him.

“Please, please, Eames, please—” Arthur begs, embarrassment flushing down to his chest, staining him pink, and Eames bites down gently, before pulling up.

“I want to take you apart,” Eames drawls huskily,

And Arthur breathes heavily when he feels rough fingers unbuckle his belt, and his hips lift as Eames slides the leather free, and Arthur shuts his eyes tight, and tries to breathe, because he knows what’s coming next, and

He hisses as Eames eases his hand underneath the waistband of Arthur’s briefs and wraps an unforgiving palm around his demanding flesh.

Eames slowly begins squeezing and stroking Arthur, spreading the slick fluid oozing out of the head of Arthur’s cock with his thumb on every upward drag.

“Talk to me,” Eames sighs into his ear,

And Arthur can’t think, only gasp, the hand on him a hot centering hold of pleasure,

“Talk to me,” Eames grumbles,

So Arthur chokes out the first thing he can think of,

“Aroused, he exhales,” Arthur’s voice is a strangled whine, “The intense perfume of his musk.”

Eames moans something that sounds like “oh god, fucking poetry, don’t stop.” Muffled into the crook of Arthur’s neck,

“The sight of his face, lit by a ray of light— _shit, fuck_ ,” Eames pulls Arthur closer, hands artfully twisting and sliding,

“Imprints itself.” Arthur arches, hips stuttering,

Eames drops with a thud to his knees, and engulfs Arthur’s cock in one long suck.

Sensual, generous lips split on Arthur’s straining dick, tongue swirling, teasing, savoring. Arthur’s hips buck—his hands clenched tightly to his sides, knuckles tight, incredulous moans wrung from his throat.

Eames sucks Arthur’s cock with a steady relentless rhythm; working in tandem with Arthur’s thrusting hips. He shoves a hand into his trousers, and pulls his dick out, relishing the drag of it, getting off on the breathy, mangled keening of Arthur above him.

Arthur can barely breathe, the pleasure so intense, he feels utterly lost in the sensation, holding on by a thread, shuddering into the slick wet heat bathing, lathing him with liquid lust.

He looks down at Eames, on his knees, swallowing his cock with such adoration and fervor; the slurping sound of it obscene; Arthur can’t help it—

He tangles his fingers into that hair, mussing it, and tugs Eames further onto his insistent cock, choking him on it, and Arthur can feel the humming buzz of a smothered moan, and he can see Eames’ other hand jerking beneath him, striping his dick, and he just

Grabs onto the back of Eames’ head and face fucks him.

Suction and rhythm and the tight, wet, fucking pull of Eames just taking it, readily opening up Arthur; letting him pound into him, stuffing his mouth full of hard cock.

He can feel himself drifting, a mindless slave to the melted moment of it, explicit, the distant throb of his lip between his teeth as his body begins to heave upward, straining. He rubs a thumb absentmindedly at the corner of Eames’ mouth—where his shaft slides in and out dripping with spit ; he slams back into his body, breath rushing to fill laboring lungs, heart pounding as he pants and cries out, fingers tightening in Eames’ hair as he tips over the edge.

He pulls out until just the head of his dick rests pillowed on those sinful, swollen-red lips, and anoints Eames, sullies him, watches him greedily lap pulse after rich creamy pulse.

Arthur smears it across his mouth warm and sticky, and admires; feeling slightly out of depth, and trying to hide it.

Eames stands, dick heavy against his stomach, one hand lazily stroking it. He licks his lips.

“Bedroom” he rasps out, voice cock-wrecked and thick.

As they make their way to the bedroom, discarding the rest of their clothes along the way, Arthur begins to feel slightly anxious—still a little dizzy from his orgasm, and just generally overwhelmed that this beautiful, devastatingly, wickedly talented boy wants him.

He stops just inside the door of the bedroom watching Eames crawl onto the bed, and he swallows, suddenly unsure of what to do, or what to say.

Eames stretches out, languidly lounging against fluffed pillows, comfortable.

“You’re beautiful” Arthur blurts out and flushes. He hadn’t meant to say the words aloud, but there they were, hanging in the space between them, unavoidable, revealing.

Arthur feels lost until he catches the warm, delighted gaze of Eames. What he sees there reflects, and anchors him; calm.

“I don’t do this.” He admits, stepping closer,

“I don’t either,” Eames says unashamedly, “now get over here, I want to eat you open.”

Arthur feels his face heat in embarrassment and his mouth is dry as he nods, his dick twitching against his thigh.

He crawls over to Eames, and is pulled into his lap, a big hand clapped to the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss.

He can taste himself in the kiss, the drying saltiness and he reaches up to touch Eames’ face, to anchor himself in the now as he licks into that fantastic mouth and sucks on the fat tongue tangling with his.

He trails his tongue over the plump fullness of Eames’ bottom lip, tugging it with small nips between his teeth, listening to the intermittent gasping pants of man beneath him.

The kiss turns sloppy, bruising, the thrum of sensation low and inviting.

Eames’ hands are a massaging pressure on his ass, kneading and caressing, and Arthur’s hard again, and he breaks from the kiss to suck in air, and Eames is trailing little licks and bites down the column of his throat, and his fingers are trailing closer and closer until—

Arthur makes a low noise in the back of his throat, almost animal, as Eames’ dry calloused finger brushes against his hole; grazing, stroking, catching, rubbing.

Suddenly he is being flipped and shoved onto his face. Eames is still seated, legs splayed, and Arthur is between them, on his elbows and knees, ass raised, presented for Eames’ inspection, face a burning heat burrowed in the bedclothes.

Warm breath feathers across his exposed hole, and he feels himself clench, and he feels a little like he wants to cry, anticipation stretching him thin, and then he feels velvet wetness trailing down his seam, and then swirling around his hole.

Eames licks, and prods, and laps at Arthur, whispering the goddamn dirtiest things Arthur has ever heard,

“You like this? You like me licking you here? Sucking you open? I’m going to fuck you and fill you with my come, and then lick it out of you.”

With an almost savage intensity, Eames’ eats Arthur out, piercing him, stabbing, thrusting into the yield of him, slurping with sliding lips, until Arthur is a writhing, burning, soaked mess. Eames’ arms are steady, holding Arthur’s ass firmly in the air in front of him, as Arthur struggles against the sheets, eagerly thrusting back into Eames’ mouth, and he realizes he’s begging.

“Please, oh god, shit fuck, ungh, Ea—Eames, please, more, I need more, fuck, fuck, fuck,”

Arthur hears the sliding of a drawer, and then the tell-tale popping of a cap, and he moans, humping the air, and suddenly lube-drenched fingers are sliding over him, and a finger is slipping into him with slow, exquisite grace.

“Darling, you’re lovely, oh god, if you could see yourself. Your arse is just taking my finger, so easily, god—”

Arthur whimpers, and pushes back, ready for more.

“You want another one? _Fffuuck_ me, yeah—take it, go on, eat it up,” Eames’ mouth runs filth as he pushes another fat finger into Arthur,

“You want to be spread out and fucked out on my cock, yeah professor? You want me to fuck you good, fuck you hard, shit—look at how sweetly you take my fingers, so fucking good, so fucking ready for me,”

Eames’ voice is panting, as he stretches him open,

“More” Arthur groans, as he feels the insistent empty ache, he feels needy, and alive; stuffed – unashamed as he pleads for more.

“Yeah, baby. You can take another—shit, look at that.” Eames is reverent in his praise, awed and heavy with lust.

Arthur strains to help impale himself on Eames’ broad, tapered fingers.

“ _Fuck, you’re so fucking—_ ” Arthur doesn’t hear the rest,

Because he’s being gently manhandled, the fingers leaving him with a drag, he makes a noise of discontent at the absence, but then Eames is there, big, solid, bright and encompassing,

“Darling, can I fuck you, please let me fuck you,” Eames is asking, as if such a thing were too good to be true, completely unattainable.

something warm and loose unfurls in his chest, and Arthur smiles, “Yeah, yeah. Um, do you have—” he’s going to say protection, but Eames is already scrabbling in his bedside drawer, and then he’s tearing foil with crooked teeth and a salacious smirk, and then rolling a condom onto his wide, stiff cock.

 _Fuck_ , Arthur breathes.

His hole is stretched and ready, clenching on emptiness, and he wants that inside him, and he realizes he’s saying this out loud, because Eames is closing his eyes and scrubbing his hand down his face, and whispering, “I’m so fucked, Jesus, you’re going to ruin me aren’t you,”

And then he’s folding himself over Arthur, and kissing his face, and his lips, and Arthur doesn’t know how he’s going to survive this, he’s babbling, “please, oh god, just put it in I need this, I’m ready, I swear to god Eames if you don’t fucking fuck me now I—”

And then Arthur feels the head of Eames’ cock and he makes a small noise of disbelief, and there’s a steady pressure, cock breaching him, and Arthur feels it in his throat, the burn of it, the heaviness of it.

 _“Shit_ you’re tight, you’re just gobbling up my dick, fucking hungry for it,” he says it like a caress, like poetry.

Eames stops when he’s buried to the hilt, arms straining on the bed beside Arthur’s head, and his eyes are shut tight, and he’s whispering something to himself like a mantra, and Arthur turns his head and kisses Eames’ forearm, and Eames snaps his hips, and they exhale in unison and then

Eames starts to fuck him.

Slowly at first; deep, burning thrusts, swiveling his hips and grinding into Arthur at the hilt, pulling out until the head, and then rocking forward smooth.

Arthur is begging for _fasterharder_ , but Eames ignores him, sinuously undulating, eyes swallowed in desire as Arthur writhes on the end of his cock.

Eames starts talking when he finds Arthur’s prostate.

“ _Christ_ , you gorgeous thing,” he adjusts his angle to drag over that spot with every glide, his pace steady, firm as Arthur’s pleasure intensifies. He snakes a hand between them to curl around his cock, and he can feel the precrome sliding down his shaft, making every jerk sound filthy.

Eames’ rhythm breaks, and he starts pounding into Arthur, voice gone, cheeks stained red, lips bitten to hell.

Arthur feels impossibly full, and he wants Eames to know—

“I want to write poetry about you,” He says, and Eames’ movements become erratic, relentlessly frantic; a maddening friction,

“I want _ungh, Eames,_ I want…I want— _ah, Eames! Eames, oh fuck, Eames, Eames, I’m close, I’m—_ ”

Eames fucks into him desperately, slamming into him, slapping into the globes of Arthur’s ass,

“I want to write poetry about you,” Arthur keens, because his mind is empty of everything else, of everything except for Eames, and he feels the cresting of his climax as his body bows and he sobs,

“Eames” as he comes.

Eames growls above him, jackknifing into him—his plunges stuttering as his body tenses, and tightens, a broken sound falling from plush lips,

_Darling._

The next morning Arthur is nearly late to give his last exam, and he’s wearing the previous days clothes and probably looks like shit, but he’s got a number scrawled across his hand, and a lunch date, and this morning he woke up curled around a pretty boy, and his heart feels a peacefulness and a joy he hasn’t felt in a long time and,

he wants to write poetry again.

**Author's Note:**

> the poem Arthur recites is For a Beautiful Black boy by Muhammad al-Nawaji bin Hasan bin Ali bin Othman


End file.
